


Sunrise Isles

by karuvapatta



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Crossdressing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Romance, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ambush leaves Prince Arthur imprisoned and stranded on the very edge of the known world. There he meets a strange boy with an even stranger power - which may be enough to save them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunrise Isles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [altocello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/gifts).



> This was inspired in part by altocello's [fanart](http://altocello.livejournal.com/28212.html) and in part by _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ (that's where the geography came from). Prompt list included BAMF!Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, dragonlord!Merlin, slave!fic, magical AUs, crossdressing and shaving. In the end it turned out to be more of a fairy tale than I intended, but isn't holiday spirit all about happily-ever-afters?
> 
>  **Warnings:** Nothing graphic happens in-story, but there are references to forced prostitution and minor character death.
> 
>  
> 
> Happy Merlin Holidays, altocello! Hope you will enjoy :)

He could get used to the sensation of the sun beating down on his naked back. He could tune out the pain in his muscles. If he concentrated really hard, he could even forget the hard metal chafing his wrists and ankles, but the sharp sting of _humiliation_ was persistently there.

Arthur hefted the pickaxe and brought it down, its sharp edge barely scratching stone. He had to pause to blink the sweat out of his eyes.

There was a rhythm to it. He just couldn't find it.

The quarry they had him work in – that they had _sold him to_ \-- was situated deep in a pit. The wide, gaping mouth of it above them seemed to collect sunlight all day long, with only a couple of hours of blissful shade near the sunset or sunrise. Plus there was the dam, to keep out the water – a makeshift thing of mouldy wood and dubious quality, holding the threat of drowning right over their heads.

The sweet, blissful sound of the bell promised an early finish. Arthur carelessly tossed down the pickaxe – the handler threatened they would be picking the rock with their bare heads if they lost their tools, but the man wasn't _that_ stupid. Slaves were expensive; physically fit slaves most expensive of all.

He had no idea what they were being letting off early today. The Governor had something planned and needed all guards up there in the castle – although why, Arthur had no clue. Maybe to project a false sense of security and prosperity for the sake of his guests.

Technically speaking, the Lone Islands belonged to the Crown, being a part of the Kingdom of Essetir which had for centuries owed allegiance to the High King. The truth was much more mundane – the Islands had the dubious honour of being the easternmost part of the Five Kingdoms, and separated from the mainland by a three-week sea voyage at the best of times. So long as they paid their taxes, no-one really cared what happened there.

Arthur had never wondered _how_ they acquired the gold. Perhaps he should have.

Slave-trading was banned across the Five Kingdoms – something his father had fought hard to achieve – but it was still common, especially far away from the capital. Arthur had occasionally led patrols to far-away provinces to deal with bandits and men who fancied themselves crime-lords. During one such patrol he had been attacked. He remembered very little about the fight, other than the strike on the head which knocked him unconscious. He'd woken up in the bowels of a stinking galley, chained to a bench, with a dark crossy-thingie burned onto the skin right above his heart, stripping him of his name and titles, as he'd been stripped of his armour and weapons.

He walked through the more hostile part of the town, crowded from both sides by shabby buildings, to get back to his quarters. Slaves weren't watched closely outside of their working hours. It was a small island. There was nowhere to hide. There was nowhere to go.

It was therefore a surprise to discover he was being watched now. Arthur was sure of it, sure of the prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

Years of training kicked in. He didn't speed up or slow down. He relaxed his muscles. He scanned the street for escape routes, mirrors, weaponry—

He needn't have bothered, really. The men behind him were _loud_.

Arthur twisted around and danced aside, narrowly avoiding the blow that was meant to knock him into the nearest wall. The momentum carried the assailant to the right, granting Arthur precious seconds. He already had his eyes on an old broom, nothing more in the ways of weaponry in this place, and the man was armed with a long knife. Still, he'd faced worse odds. The wood was, at the very least, solid and sturdy. He weighed the broom in his hands, adjusting his grip. He could see, from the corner of his eye, two more men hurrying down the street. Both had knives; one carried a short club.

Arthur wasted no more time. The first guy drew the knife at him, sneering at the sight of Arthur's not-very-impressive weapon. Arthur whirled the broom handle, catching the blade before kneeing the guy in the stomach and bludgeoning his head, for good measure.

He was down. Arthur added one more jab, too busy to care about knight's honour, to make sure he stayed that way.

The knife—

The other men advanced. Arthur whirled around, forcing them to take a step back, and considered his next move. There really was nowhere to escape – climbing the building would be suicidal. He could outrun them, but he had no guarantee he wouldn't just end up in a dead-end. Or a trap.

He had longer reach, but if they flanked him—

The first guy threw himself forward, aiming a sharp thrust. Arthur deflected it with the broom handle and aimed a hit at his throat, hopefully knocking the breath out of him. It worked – the guy froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

They were simple thugs, maybe robbers. No armour to speak of, malice instead of skill.

The third one eyed Arthur with way more caution. Arthur grinned. And attacked.

The man raised his knife to defend himself, but he also did what Arthur meant him to. He stepped aside.

Arthur took off running.

He could hear them shouting in the distance. It might have been a string of curses, or maybe "Don't let him escape" or something equally trite. It didn't matter. This part of the town was a labyrinth of narrow streets which sloped down towards the harbour, which was sure to be crowded. Not that Arthur expected anyone to come to his rescue—

"Ssh!"

He stopped against his better judgement. A hand closed around his biceps and Arthur, reflexively, aimed a blow at where he expected the face would be.

"Ow!"

Well, that was getting weird.

That _someone_ was still pulling him into a dark, narrow passage between two buildings. Arthur dug his heels in and stumbled, over seemingly smooth _nothing_ , nearly crashing into the man.

He was being shoved against the wall, a hand locking around his lips.

"Quiet, I said!" a voice murmured into his ear.

The man was his height, maybe a bit taller. He was, however, much slighter than Arthur, and the grip he had on him was firm but not forceful. And yet, for some reason, Arthur found himself unable to move. It was as if his body stopped obeying him.

A heartbeat later, two figures rushed down the alley. Arthur saw them clearly: one of his assailants, and somebody else, this one armed with a crossbow.

His captor watched them intently, an unruly mass of dark locks obscuring his features. Arthur caught only a fleeting glimpse of his eyes and did a double-take. There was something about them he couldn't quite define.

As soon as the men were gone, the guy breathed out and stepped off, and Arthur could move again. He didn't let go of the broom just in case, even though the man was unarmed and didn't seem inclined to fight. He stood there, rubbing his cheek and glaring at Arthur. His eyes, Arthur noticed it now, were bright blue.

Blue. Not golden.

Oh, and there was also an ugly bruise forming on his cheek.

"You didn't have to punch me," the stranger said reproachfully.

"Well, you didn't have to attack me," Arthur shot back.

"I was trying to _help you_ , you prat," he said.

"And how was I supposed to know that?"

That seemed to shut the guy up. He scowled, and then did something even weirder. His expression smoothed out, mouth stretched into a grin. "True."

The alley was a dead-end. Arthur took a cautious peek outside, but there was no sign of any of the thugs. "I think they are gone," he said.

"Oh? You think?"

They appeared to be safe. Even so, Arthur kept his wits about him as he walked, cautiously, into the open street.

"Do you know who they were ?" he asked quietly.

"No. Never met them. Probably not from around here. Come to think of it—" the guy narrowed his eyes at Arthur. "Neither are you. Who _are_ you?"

Arthur very deliberately ignored the question. "Come on," he said.

He heard a huffed breath, like the beginning of an exasperated laugh, and a muffled, "Prat".

He led them towards the harbour, as busy late in the evening as it was every other time of day. Fishing boats were coming and going, with the occasional bigger ship to stir things up a little. It could be bringing anything – gold, trading goods, people. Slaves.

The crowd thickened. Arthur, in turn, allowed himself to relax.

A hand settled on his shoulder. He spun around, only to come face-to-face with the stranger. He was wearing a toothy grin, slightly manic but otherwise pleasant to look at. His black hair twisted and curled around his face, framing his sharp cheekbones, bright blue eyes and prominent ears.

"We could go have a drink," he said, pointing towards the nearest shabby-looking tavern.

"Oh," Arthur said, taken-aback. His survival instinct battled a vision of a mug of ale and lost. "Well, that's nice of you. Thank you."

He was awarded with another one of those narrowed-eyed glares. "I meant that _you_ could buy _me_ a drink. You know. In exchange for saving your life?"

"What!" Arthur spluttered, drawing the attention of several on-lookers. "You did _not_ save my life, I was doing just fine!"

"Well, what about the guy with the crossbow? I would love to see how you handled him."

"I _would_."

"With a broom?"

"If I had to!"

The guy shook his head at Arthur, caught between exasperation and incredulity. "But you didn't have to, your prattishness. Thanks to me."

Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times, ready to offer his defeat and with it his gratitude, but what came out was a childish, petulant, "You can't address me like that."

He was really inexplicably pleased when the guy – and Arthur should really find out his name – only chuckled and smiled at him, a little crooked but otherwise quite fond. "So? How about that drink?"

That sobered Arthur up right away. "Can't. I'm a slave. They don't exactly pay me very well."

"Oh."

Arthur _hated_ that brief silence, a lull in conversation that was filled with nothing except shame, rising up in his chest until he thought it was going to burn through him. So he tried to smother it with another meaningless jab at a guy who just saved his life. And was really rather nice. "But, you know," he said. "If you go see my owner I'm sure he will reward you for saving his property."

They guy stared at him for a long while, his expression closed off, which seemed unusual for his open, expressive face.

Then it changed, abruptly, back into that of manic glee that was slightly frightening. "That's settled, then!" he said. "Come on."

He made a proprietary grab at the sleeve of Arthur's shirt and dragged him towards one of the nearest taverns. It looked shabby, but, as far as Arthur could tell, it was not half-bad . The clientele didn't look like it was about to launch into a dog-fighting ring, in any case.

He was, however, being pulled away from the entrance and into a back alley that the tavern's kitchen must have been opening too. Just as they entered it, a woman with a lot of curly hair was exiting, an empty crate under each arm.

"Mary!"

She looked up in surprise, and smiled at the sight of them.

"Merlin. Can I get you anything?"

"Yes, please," the guy—Merlin—said.

They waited a couple of minutes until she came back with a small barrel and too mugs. Merlin gave her a bow, perfectly executed considering Merlin was a peasant from this wretched island.

"I'll come by tomorrow," Merlin said.

"You know it's always nice to see you."

Arthur held back as the two exchanged pleasantries – flirtatious on Mary's part and casual on Merlin's. Soon enough they moved on, Merlin leading them back to the harbour, where they found a narrow pier, away from the lights and the people.

Arthur pulled off his boots before slumping down. The pier was low enough for him to splash his feet in water. It felt divine – cool and soothing.

"There." Merlin pressed a full mug of ale into his hand.

"Thank you." The taste was unfamiliar – way too defined, and with a hint of something different, so much different than the stuff they used to drink back at Camelot. Arthur felt a pang of homesickness bro ught on, of all things, by a simple mug of ale. "So. Merlin, huh?"

"That's my name."

"I'm Arthur," he said.

Merlin grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously, smiling wide. "Nice to meet you, Arthur. Properly, that is."

"You didn't pay for that, did you?"

"No. Mary and I have an arrangement. She gives me free drinks whenever I want, provided I don't ask too often."

"And in return you--?"

Merlin took a sip of ale. A bit of foam stuck to his upper lip. He licked it off, gaze stuck somewhere on the horizon.

"I work as an herbalist, among other things. Her mother is sick so I bring them medicine."

"Other things?"

"You're nosy," Merlin said, with no real heat. Arthur decided it would be wise to drop the subject.

They drank in depressive silence.

"You're not from the Islands, are you?" Merlin asked eventually.

"No."

"Mainland, then? West Essetir?"

Arthur huffed a laugh. "What was it about being nosy?"

"I'm just asking questions. You don't have to answer." Merlin shrugged. He downed the rest of his cup and nudged Arthur with his shoulder, his speech already a little slurred.

Fast drinker _and_ a lightweight. Terrifying combination.

"I'm from Camelot." He spoke the word out loud for the first time in weeks. His throat constricted painfully around it; he had to force it out, lest it stayed there and choked him until he started crying. Funny, that. Up until now he didn't know that words getting stuck in your throat could be this—literal.

"Camelot, huh? That's far away."

"Yeah. Pretty far."

"Heard it's a very nice place."

"It is."

"We don't get many visitors from there."

It hit him, then, that it wasn't just Arthur imagining things. There really was something off about Merlin's voice – it grew more detached and monotonous.

"Like you said. It's far away."

"Yep." Merlin poured himself another cup and drained it almost in one go. "And I'm sure they have great entertainment. Why would they bother coming here?"

"Is there a point to this?"

"No."

"Somehow I don't believe you."

Merlin measured him with a long look. The coldness hasn't faded from his eyes – eyes that were blue and disturbingly pretty, Arthur thought suddenly.

It must have been the drink talking.

"I was just told that Camelot is where the High King lives."

"The King is dead," Arthur said. It was a phrase he heard often, above the King's deathbed, repeated among the people, whispering in the corridors of the castle and down the streets of the Town. It reverberated, echoed and came back, magnified, ringing in Arthur's head until it was the last thing he was capable of hearing.

"And good riddance."

"What?" Blood ran hot in his veins and Arthur didn't _care_ how hostile he sounded.

Merlin met his eyes, blinking owlishly. "What do you mean, 'what'? I'm just saying, he wasn't a very good king, was he?"

"Uther Pendragon was a great king. He united the Five Kingdoms—"

"Yeah, and then left them to fend for themselves."

"He brought peace to the land—"

"Only certain parts of it."

"His people loved and respected him—"

" _Some_ of the people."

"You can't please everyone. And anyway, what would you know about it? You're a peasant from some backwater town."

"Well excuse me for not knowing things," Merlin said, voice colder than winters in Ismere. "But your High King persecuted people with magic. He sat back on his throne while someone like Cenred called himself a Governor and made a fortune selling slaves. I was merely under the impression that a King who only caters to a chosen group of people is no King at all."

Some of the anger that kept Arthur going made way for doubt and an overpowering sense of guilt. He hated the helplessness it brought in its wake so he lashed out. Again. Against his better judgement. "Why didn't you go and tell him that yourself if you know so much about running a kingdom?"

"Because I can't leave!" Merlin almost shouted. He narrowly avoided knocking over the half-empty barrel with his agitated gesturing. "You're not the only one being kept here against your will, Arthur. Why won't _you_ leave?"

"They screen people before they board ships. And the punishment for running away is death," Arthur replied automatically. The words had been drilled into his head by his handler, along with _If you're late or don't show up at all, that's flogging for you, kid. Hope your pretty face can handle that._

"Exactly!"

"You're a slave?"

"No, I'm here because I want to. Gods, you're an ass," Merlin drowned his cup and moved on to another refill. Arthur pre-emptively caught the barrel and moved it out of Merlin's reach.

Merlin rewarded him with a scowl but then he slumped down, defeated. "And the King wouldn't listen to me, anyway. I'm magic."

" _What?_ "

"See, look here," Merlin waved his hand about, his movements careless and uncoordinated. Before him, out of thin air, appeared tiny pinpoints of light, drifting together to form a crude picture of a bird, or a dragon.

Arthur felt his jaw drop.

"You're magic?"

"Yeah. Don't tell anyone, though. It's a secret," Merlin frowned, as if he just remembered an important detail.

"You bloody idiot," Arthur grabbed his outstretched hand. The lights went out immediately. They sat away from the harbour, and it was running late, the sky already dark. Even tiny dots of dancing lights would be visible for miles.

"Oh."

"Why are you telling me this, if it's a secret? What if I rattled you out? You—how are you even still alive?" Arthur buried his face in his hands.

"I didn't think this through," Merlin admitted, and wasn't that an understatement of the century. "And besides, you seemed nice? At first, that is."

"How old are you, even?"

"Eighteen."

"Oh. Great." Arthur sighed. He tried to remember if he was this reckless at eighteen.

"And you are…?"

"I'm twenty."

"Hmm."

He sipped his ale in silence, letting them both cool off. Merlin stared ahead, glumly, before asking, "Speaking of High Kings, who rules Camelot now? Uther had a son, didn't he?"

"He did," Arthur said. "But the Regent, Lord Agravaine, rules in his place until the Prince comes of age."

"Oh. I don't envy the guy."

"Why not?" Arthur tried to keep his chest from puffing out.

"Well, I haven't heard many good things about the Regent. They say he's not the kind of person who would give up the throne after seizing it for himself. And if the only thing separating him from the Crown is the prince—well."

Arthur froze. "Where did you hear that?"

Merlin shrugged.

"People talk," he said sagely.

" _Which_ people, Merlin?"

"Just—people."

"You should stop listening to gossip. Besides, speaking that way of members of the Royal family is treason."

"Sorry, I forgot you people in Camelot are allergic to criticism."

Arthur snorted. "Implying that the Regent is a murdering traitor is tad bit more serious than simple criticism."

"If you say so."

Arthur finished off the ale and picked himself up. "As illuminating as this has been," he said. "I should really be getting back."

"I'll walk you!" Merlin stood up quickly, and promptly stumbled, legs flying from underneath him. Arthur grabbed his forearms to steady him. Hopefully Merlin wouldn't drag them both into water.

"For your own safety," Merlin babbled, smiling to—presumably—cover his embarrassment. "You never know. You might get attacked again."

"Right. Let's say I believe you."

They set off, Merlin a little wobbly on his feet. On the way out of the harbour they took back the now-empty barrel and mugs. Mary waved them off and scurried away; at this hour people were getting more rowdy and even more drunk.

Arthur allowed Merlin to lead the way, that is to say he gently nudged Merlin when he was in danger of bumping into a wall. They were nearing the anthill that was the slaves' quarters, when Merlin drifted off to the side, coming to a stop besides an unassuming wooden door. A sign above them proclaimed it to be an apothecary 's shop.

"That's me," he said. His eyes were already closing on their own accord.

"Yes. Thank you for walking me back," Arthur said, sarcastic. When Merlin startled awake and swayed in his general direction, looking guilty, Arthur raised his arms. "No, I'm kidding. Seriously. It's a stone's throw from here and there's a lot of people around. Calm down."

"Okay."

"And, well. Thank you. For earlier. I guess you really did save my life."

Merlin blinked at him. He had impossibly long, dark lashes, and the smile that stretched his lips was sleepy and fond. "You're welcome."

"I'll see you, then."

"Sure."

Merlin opened the door and walked inside, shutting it behind him with a soft click.

Arthur waited, and told himself he wasn't disappointed when nothing happened.

***

He hadn't seen Merlin for a couple of days. The apothecary's working hours coincided with Arthur's and what Merlin did with his spare time, Arthur had no idea.

Today, though, Merlin's lights were on.

Arthur rubbed his eyelids, even though his sore muscles ached at even the tiniest of movements. He needed sleep, and a lot of it. There was a bed calling his name, a narrow, unmade cot in a dark and empty room, the straw scraping his skin through the thin blanket.

He took off and was pushing open the doors to Merlin's place before tiredness took over.

The first room seemed to be a workshop, filled with bottles, jars, and weird glass bubbles, connected to other glass bubbles with opaque tubes. Far in the back there was a spiralling flight of stairs, which took him to a tiny room bright with yellowish candlelight. Merlin was there, perched on a bed, with his legs folded underneath him. He looks like a giant, nervous bird, especially with the way his fingers were drumming on the wooden frame, hands flexing and twitching, like he was trying to take flight. Arthur concluded it was probably Merlin's bedroom, as the only things there were only a few letters short of bearing his name.

"Oh. Hi," he said to Arthur. "How was your day?"

"Fine," Arthur said, ignoring the ache in his arms. "How was yours?"

"Fine," Merlin replied, with almost the same amount of conviction. The turn of his lips was a dry smile, much more honest and familiar. "Want something to drink?"

"Sure."

Arthur sat at the table. The room was steaming hot with the hearth ablaze – Merlin was boiling a cauldron of water large enough to make tea for the entire town. Arthur watched him pick up a mug and some dried leaves from a jar and then ladle the boiling water into the mug.

The aroma was wonderful. Arthur inhaled it with pleasure.

There was an odd, disjointed quality to Merlin's movements. He paced the room before fetching a wide basin and carefully, very carefully tipping the cauldron to pour water inside. Cloud of steam rose above it and Merlin waved it away.

There was a bar of soap on the table, and a set of razors. Arthur's hand drifted, through some odd reflex, to his chin, and felt the rough stubble there.

Merlin caught the movement and scowled at him. "I'm not shaving you," he said.

"I didn't ask you to."

"I always cut myself," Merlin said.

"That's because your razors are shit," Arthur told him. He was no authority but he saw the kind the barber at Camelot worked with, and they were fine pieces of work. Those were very simple, with a wooden handle and a blade not only worn thin with numerous sharpening but also chipped in places.

"Thanks."

Arthur smiled. He sipped his tea – it was an odd mixture of herbs, with a distinct aroma of mint and some sweet, fruity undertone. Merlin, despite the air of general incompetency, was a talented herbalist.

Merlin fetched another item and set it on the table – a polished, silver piece of metal that could, under favourable conditions, pass for a mirror. He spent a few minutes arranging it over a stack of books and rocks so that it reflected his face.

"There's some bread, if you'd like," he said, wetting the bar of soap and rubbing it between his palms to work up some lather.

Oh, Arthur was hungry. The meagre food rations they provided at work only served to make the churning in his stomach more pronounced. But he found he could not tear his eyes away from Merlin's hands, now messaging circles over his chin, his cheeks, above the perfectly-shaped upper lip, down his slender neck—

He gripped the mug tighter, the heat almost painful in a pleasantly distracting way.

"I'd love some," he said, not making a move to stand. Merlin sent him a lopsided grin. The white foam made him look like an old man and Arthur almost laughed.

"Well, you can take it for yourself. I'm busy."

He rinsed and towelled his hand before reaching for the razor. The blade glinted in the candlelight. Merlin twisted his face this way and that in front of the mirror, and settled the cutting edge along his jawline before sliding it up, torturously slow and careful.

Arthur traced the progression of the knife with his eyes.

In the wake of its movements was an even patch of skin, clear of foam and hair. Merlin worked his way methodically, taking great pains not to cut himself—

He hissed, sharply, the hand with which he held the razor jerking away. A tiny droplet of blood beaded on his chin. It pooled and travelled down his neck, stark-red line against his skin.

"Fuck," he said. "This always happens."

Arthur sipped his tea to quench the dryness in his throat.

"Clearly you can't be trusted with a blade," he said.

"Oh, like you are any better," Merlin narrowed his eyes at him, dabbing the blood away with the towel.

"I am," Arthur said, with no small amount of smugness in his voice.

Well. He wasn't exactly a champion at _shaving_. But his skill with a sword brought him fame across the Five Kingdoms. Surely there wasn't much of a difference?

"Fine," Merlin said. "You do it."

Arthur blinked several times. Merlin held the razor in his direction – handle-first, thankfully – and was staring, expectantly.

"Erm."

"What is it?" Merlin's expression was deathly serious, but there was an underlying tone of amusement in his voice.

"When I said I'm good with a blade…"

Merlin persisted in trying to shove the razor in his hand.

Unable to think of an excuse, and because he suspected Merlin already knew he hadn't shaved anyone in his life and seemed not to care, Arthur took it.

"I'm warning you though," he said, pushing back the chair and standing in front of Merlin. "I may accidentally cut your throat."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Merlin murmured, barely audible.

There was a weight to that statement that left Arthur perplexed and irrationally angry. But he had other problems right now.

Merlin leaned his head back, exposing the long line of his neck. He wore a loose white shirt, open at the collar and framing the tantalising dip between his collarbones. Candlelight lent a soft, golden glow to his skin. A soft, almost inviting smile played at his lips, and his eyes were half-lidded, dark in the gloomy interior, obscured by his long eyelashes.

Really, the only downside was the lather covering half of his face.

"Ready?" Arthur said.

"Are you?" Merlin shot back.

Arthur wasn't.

He moved closer, until he was practically standing between Merlin's legs, and brought the razor down, aligning it with Merlin's jaw. He tried breathing through his nose, praying his hand would remain steady.

The blade made a scraping sound when dragged over Merlin's stubble. Plus his face seemed to be made entirely of sharp angles, and navigating them proved – challenging.

He reached for Merlin's chin and manoeuvred his face upwards – and took a moment to marvel at the sheer blind _trust_ Merlin was showing him. Exposing himself like that—

Arthur was trained for battle. To strike his opponents where they were most sensitive, cut them where they would bleed. Now, as he watched the play of muscles in Merlin's neck, the bobbing of his Adam's apple, his head tilted back in wordless submission – he was struck with how easily Merlin's throat could be slit, the life bleeding out of him.

He didn't become a champion swordsman by pondering the fragility of human life. And he would be damned if he should start now.

When he was done, he stood back, uncertain. It took several moments for Merlin's eyes to blink open, as if he was waking up from a long dream.

"Huh."

He rinsed and towelled his face, hands rubbing it thoughtfully.

"You're not terrible at this," he said, appreciative.

"You're welcome," Arthur snorted.

Merlin turned his attention towards the bed. A length of velvet fabric in gorgeous midnight blue occupied the centre of it. Something was off though – the cut looked familiar, except it was—

"A dress?"

Merlin shrugged. The gesture wasn't enough to satisfy Arthur's curiosity so he spoke, with obvious reluctance.

"We used to do theatre, when we were children. I would, occasionally, play the girl."

"What, no other girls on this wretched island?"

"Oh, there were," Merlin smiled softly, his expression smoothing out. Whatever memory played behind his eyelids must have been pleasant. "But neither Freya nor Isolde wanted to be the damsel in distress, so…"

"They cast you?"

"I'm told I didn't look half bad. So long as we had a wig to cover the ears."

Arthur chuckled at the mental picture.

Next to the dress was a bundle of dark fabric, impossible to identify in the candlelight. Merlin reached for it in a slightly self-conscious gesture. Arthur felt like he was intruding on something very private.

Which it must have been.

He had about a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue. He held them back.

"Look, I should go," Arthur said, noting proudly that he was displaying more tact than he had in all his life.

Merlin didn't turn. But for a breathless moment he angled his head so that the perfect line of his profile contrasted against the dark background—

"You can stay if you want to."

Arthur almost hadn't heard the softly-spoken words over the sound of mentally beating himself on the head. His sudden desire to wax poetry about Merlin's ethereal beauty was stupid. And worrying.

In the meantime his cue to get up and leave passed. Merlin, unbothered, got busy pulling off his shirt.

Oh, he didn't stop there. Next went the trousers in a completely casual, unselfconscious motion that had Arthur wondering if Merlin did that often, if he was used to undressing in front of strangers—

A horrible realization gnawed at his insides.

Merlin turned around. His body was—striking. Surprisingly well-muscled and mostly pale, with visible tan lines on his hands, collar and shins. He had long, wiry legs. And they were shaven. They must have been, because Merlin's chest and forearms were lightly dusted with dark hairs, and the skin of his legs was smooth.

Arthur pointedly avoided looking at Merlin's crotch.

Merlin sat down on the bed and shifted through the bundle of fabric, coming up with a pair of silk stockings. They were topped with an intricate lacework which was surprising – such things were rare, and expensive.

If Merlin noted Arthur's discomfort, or raised eyebrows, he didn't acknowledge it.

He rolled a stocking and pulled it onto his feet, unrolling it slowly upwards – first one and then the other, the fabric snuggly hugging his legs. Black lace came up to his mid-thigh, stark against pale skin.

The panties that came with them were surprisingly modest, fitting Merlin's narrow hips. They too were black, with a bit of semi-transparent lace on the side and an interesting bulge in the front that kept drawing Arthur's gaze like a beacon.

His face—fuck. He was watching Arthur through his lashes, teeth biting the lower lip in a gesture that was almost—flirty. Or that was just Arthur's imagination.

"Can you help me with that?" Merlin said, picking up the final piece – a corset, black-and-light-blue, with visible boning. Merlin was eyeing it with something approaching distaste. "It's not exactly a one-man operation."

Arthur could.

It was silky-smooth to the touch – satin, perhaps. Or was it coutil? He wasn't an expert on women's wear, and he always tuned Morgana out when she spoke of things like that—

Merlin positioned himself in front of Arthur, head slightly bowed. The bone of his spine protruded from his body. Arthur fought the urge to trace them with his fingers.

"Right," he said – a croak, not a sound coming out of his mouth. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Right. Aren't you going to wear something underneath?"

"No point," Merlin said cheerfully. "It's going to come off pretty soon anyway."

Arthur froze.

"What are you—"

"Hurry up, will you?"

He was faced with the impossible task of putting his arms around Merlin – his slim frame, the vast expanse of skin, the fresh, clean smell of his body - and somehow not losing himself completely.

The corset—fit. It was tighter than Arthur expected, clearly meant for more than decoration – although not half as tight as what Morgana would put on when she meant to make an impression.

The lacing was a light blue ribbon in the back. Arthur tugged at the loose ends and watched the blue fabric come together, obscuring the triangle of bare skin at Merlin's back. It began beneath Merlin's shoulder blades – and Merlin, instinctively, brought them together, their shape reminding Arthur of a pair of wings.

He kept tugging. The corset squeezed Merlin's middle, adding a clearly defined waist to his figure.

"Come on," Merlin murmured.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur asked instead.

It seemed that was it; that was how far the stiff fabric could shape Merlin's body without hurting it. Merlin, though, took a deep breath; his ribcage expanded and the corset creaked in response.

Arthur took his cue and pulled some more. It was—strange, and worrying, and fascinating at the same time.

Merlin swayed in his arms, and Arthur caught him on pure instinct, wrapping one arm around his torso while he held the lacing with the other.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"I'm fine," Merlin said. His breathing was shallow and loud – it drowned even the sound of Arthur's own heart, hammering in his chest. "I just need a minute."

Arthur's tightened his hold – even though _tight_ was probably the last thing Merlin needed right now. He seemed to relax into it, though, his eyelids drooping and lips stretching into a smile.

Arthur didn't want to let go.

"You can tie it now," Merlin said eventually. His head settled on Arthur's shoulder – he was slightly taller so the position was awkward and yet so, so right.

Reluctantly, and through sheer willpower, Arthur helped him regain an upright position. Merlin took another deep breath, his chest moving upwards; Arthur tugged at the laces, the corset hugging Merlin's middle, and tied them together with shaky fingers.

The knot was awful. He figured it didn't really matter.

Merlin stepped away and reached the bed in two easy strides. He had practice, apparently.

The dress, already cleaned and prepared, was a simple thing with a boat-shaped collar and a cut in the side that came up to mid-thigh. The fabric looked even better in candlelight – going from a rich, vibrant blue to almost black, depending on how the light hit it.

It looked good on Merlin. Accentuated his figure, made him somehow softer and prettier. The skirt curled around his legs, long enough to touch the floor, the cut alternately exposing and concealing his legs while he moved.

Merlin would not, under any circumstances, pass for a women – his shoulders were too broad, his entire body too angular. And yet, the effect was striking.

He had a pair of black heeled shoes to go with the attire that made him even taller. He also took a simple dark cloak out of a chest and fastened it below his neck, covering himself completely.

"Merlin," Arthur said, unable to hold his tongue – because Merlin was already poised to leave.

He was met with a face much colder than before, expression calm and void of any emotion.

"You have your job," Merlin said simply. "I have mine."

And that was that.

***

He didn't sleep much that night.

***

It was early, very early. The sky was pastel-coloured in a way that would give Morgana's artistic sense a headache – but then again, she would seldom rise before breakfast. Needed her beauty sleep, she used to say.

Arthur picked a direction towards the eastern part of the island, where the ground was rocky and parched, devoid of any vegetation except sharp grass and shrubbery, with a couple of errant goats having their breakfast. They gave Arthur the evil eye as he passed.

Narrow path led all the way up the hill. The area was uninhabited – nothing here except goats. He saw, over in the distance, ruins of a house. Most of its walls were crumbled to dust. Behind it the ground dropped rapidly, and Arthur walked there, curious.

It was a cliff, about forty feet tall. Its face was very steep, almost vertical, and consisted of grey rock, here and there painted with a mossy patch or the ever-present ochre-coloured sand. Below he saw a beach, surrounded from almost all sides by the cliff or rocky formations that curved around it and clawed their way into the sea.

The only direction was the east, and the calm, bright-blue water.

He wasn't surprised that there was someone there – even less surprised to identify him as Merlin, even from the distance.

A quick survey of the terrain revealed a path – narrow and winding, transforming into a staircase that climbed all the way down. The steps must have been here for a long time because they barely resembled something man-made anymore.

Merlin didn't acknowledge his presence. He stood still, ankle-deep in the sea, eyes fixed on the horizon. The sun was just beginning to make its way up, the first, hesitant rays reflecting on the water surface.

"Nice place," Arthur said casually.

"I know," Merlin said.

There was no wind – there usually wasn't around sunset or sunrise, Arthur had noticed. It meant that the sea was flat and calm like a lake. In such conditions, with perfect visibility, it also looked endless. It made him believe that if one was to take a boat and sail towards the rising sun they would never run out of waters.

"Has anyone ever…?"

"Hmm?"

"Sailed that way?"

Merlin gave him a side-along glance.

"Why do you ask?"

"Back in Camelot they used to say there's nothing beyond the Lone Islands," said Arthur. "That none of those who ventured East ever came back. No-one knows why."

Merlin smiled faintly.

"Over here they say the strangest things. That there's monsters, sea-serpents… dragons…"

"Dragons?"

Merlin shrugged.

"Old wives' tales. Anyway, no-one here really cares. They have enough problems as it is."

That Arthur knew.

They stood in silence while the sun made its way up the sky.

"Merlin—"

"Stop it, Arthur," Merlin said quietly. There were cracks in his carefully controlled expression, a faint tremble to his casually-indifferent tone of voice. "It's none of your business."

"I just—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"Don't."

Merlin spun around, a hard set to his mouth that wasn't there before. His eyes flashed with a myriad of emotions – disappointment, anger, _shame_.

He opened his mouth, as if to speak, to shout. Arthur braced himself mentally, but after a brief moment of awkward silence Merlin's jaw snapped shut and, without a word, he stormed off.

***

It seemed impossible to hate the Island more than he already did. But, somehow, every day brought on more casually sadistic guards, more pointless labour – and more time to contemplate the fact of Merlin.

He tried asking around, but was unable to come up with definite answers. Merlin worked at the apothecary. Merlin used to be an apprentice to a man called Gaius – and wasn't it odd that Arthur had heard of a Lord Gaius, who used to be an advisor to the High King before he was banished for practising magic?

Merlin was an orphan and no-one knew how he came to be here. Merlin visited the Governor's castle at odd times.

Arthur forced his breathing to settle. They were working him even harder than before, and this was getting ridiculous. Human body – even one as well-trained as Arthur's – had its limits. It was almost as if the guards were trying to wear him on down on purpose.

That was it. Another day, another evening. He trudged along towards his quarters. Even the vision of that blasted cot seemed promising—

He stopped abruptly. The streets shouldn't be this empty, should they? A moment ago there was usual buzz of activity; now there was just dull, empty silence.

He clenched and unclenched his fists. From both ends of the alley people were approaching; he had no delusions as to their purpose.

For what he could see, they were all large and ugly. A man came forth, the largest and ugliest of them all, and measured Arthur with a disdainful gaze.

" _That's_ him? What a let-down."

"No-one said we was to go hunting rats!"

They erupted in mocking laughter, and Arthur groaned audibly.

"What do you want? I don't have gold," he said.

"We can see that," some other thug jeered. "Nor worth a copper piece, are you?"

"I'm just saying, if this is a robbery, you must be world's worst thieves. Most cowardly, too," Arthur said.

He was propelled by bravado and stupidity in equal measure but he would be damned if he died a coward.

"Hah! He thinks he's funny," the leader shouted.

Arthur sighed.

"Is there a point to this?" he asked.

In response he was treated to an ugly, cruel toothless smile. The leader brandished a sword and swung it around. If he meant it to be menacing, he—succeeded, actually.

"We're here to pass you a message."

"Message?"

"From your uncle."

Arthur froze. He watched the blade rise. The cut was wide. It would sever his head right off.

It never landed.

The man was blown away by an invisible force. His body crashed against the wall at neck-breaking speed and then slumped down, unmoving.

The others scattered, shouting something that Arthur couldn't hear. Some of them aimed and fired crossbows but the bolts bounced back in mid-air and fell harmless to the ground. Arthur thought he saw a shimmering golden web of cracks, as if there was an invisible pane of glass separating him from the attackers.

He didn't even need to look around.

Merlin didn't walk, he _strode_ , full of casual grace and purpose. His hand was outstretched and his eyes were blazing gold – nothing human about them whatsoever. He was a vision, bright, captivating. Utterly terrifying.

"Back off," he snarled.

"Kill him! Somebody—"

More belts bounced off the barrier. Merlin raised his head and glared at them with cold indifference.

"I said, _back off_."

They parted ways for him without a word. Arthur couldn't blame them; he almost felt like running himself.

"You okay?" Merlin asked softly, coming to a stop before Arthur.

"I'm fine."

"Let's go, then," Merlin said.

Arthur allowed himself to be led, keeping a careful eye on the assailants. When they reached a crossing Merlin beckoned him, and spoke under his breath.

"What are they doing?"

"Watching us."

"Are they coming closer?"

Arthur glanced behind him.

"Yes."

Merlin tapped his arm.

"Hey," he said with a fake grin. "Let's run really fast, okay?"

They went from casual walk to a full sprint in record time, Arthur thought. His ribs ached, his muscles strained under the abuse; but behind him where angry men with crossbows and Merlin, as he started to notice, was getting paler by the second.

"Where—"

"Harbour!"

They ran past the market, the craftsmen district – anywhere where they could get lost in the crowd. Now they were also chased by angry shouts of people they crashed into but he could handle that. Angry shouting was music to his ears, compared to the wheezing bolt of a crossbow going past his head.

Merlin rounded a corner into the now-familiar alley behind Mary's tavern. Once again he was pushing Arthur into the wall – but this time there was no magic to hold him motionless, only Merlin's hand over Arthur's lips, his body pressed close, radiating heat from the exertion.

"They can't see us?" Arthur whispered.

"I hope not."

"You did something though, didn't you? Last time."

Merlin shook his head.

"I can do simple illusions but I'm tired now. You have no idea."

"I think I have some idea," Arthur said.

Merlin shrugged. It was impossible to see if the thugs were still there, but the odds were against them. That group consisted of ten people, and there was no telling if they had accomplices.

"Hey," Merlin frowned. His face was really close and his entire body slack, rested against Arthur's. His skin turned pale. "What was it he said? About your uncle?"

Arthur swallowed, but the bitter taste in his mouth would not go away.

"I guess you were right," he said.

Merlin stared at him, frowning, uncomprehending.

"The first time we talked. What you said about the Regent. I guess you were right."

Some sick, perverted part of Arthur's brain enjoyed watching emotions flicker over Merlin's face until understanding settled in. And then he blanched in blank horror.

"You are—oh gods."

Arthur shrugged.

"I was."

"Oh _gods_. You are the _Prince_. How--?"

"Later, Merlin. We will talk later."

But he had a strong feeling that if they didn't run now they would have no later.

"I need to get off this island. Is there a way?" he asked.

Merlin visibly pulled himself together. His eyes were back to their usual blue, but if he looked very hard, Arthur could notice tiny specks of gold. The calmness in his voice was, given the circumstances, admirable.

"There is, actually. I thought about what you said. And I've been thinking for a while." He took a deep breath. "There is a boat in the harbour, already stocked with provisions. It won't last for very long—a few days, maybe a week."

"Will it get us to the next island?" Arthur said, the tiny, hopeful _us_ creeping in on its own accord.

"It would be useless. They will find us there. I thought maybe—maybe we could go east."

"You said yourself there's nothing there."

"The way I see it," Merlin said softly. "There's not much here, either. So what do you say?"

The strange thing was, Arthur still found it in him to smile.

***

Sneaking into the harbour and the tiny sailing boat wasn't the hardest part. No, that came when they tried to unmoor.

"Hey! Stop right there!"

Guards came shouting from all directions, armed with torches and crossbows and uncomfortable questions.

"Row faster!" Merlin screamed needlessly. He was in charge of the ropes; Arthur hoped he knew what he was doing.

He gritted his teeth and pushed the oars into the black water. The motion was unfamiliar and therefore painful.

"Come on, come on…"

The guards had boats of their own – faster and with more experienced crew. There was no way this was going to end well.

Merlin was busy pulling up the sail. It flapped uselessly in the still air and Arthur watched it with a growing sense of doom.

"Merlin, there is no wind—"

"Ssh!"

When the sail was fully up Merlin backed away, nearly falling overboard. He raised his hands and shouted something incomprehensible, something in no language Arthur had ever heard of. His eyes gleamed golden.

"Oh."

Slowly, ever so slowly, the sail began to change shape. It curved and bulged, catching the wind and dragging them forwards – away from the guards and the harbour. Arthur watched in awe as the wind picked up even more; the mast tilted to the side; the boat moved along with it.

They were _sailing_.

He took a look around but the pursuit had no chance of catching up with rowboats. It seemed that they weren't entirely stupid because they were putting up sails of their own.

"Can you make it windy here but not windy over there?" Arthur asked.

Merlin gave him a reproachful, one-eyed glare.

"And how would I do that?"

"I don't know, you're the one with the magic!"

In response Merlin shouted something else. They were going faster now, gliding away into the night.

"Come on, come on…"

Arthur knew next to nothing about boats. He didn't know why theirs was faster than the one pursuing it – if it was its long, narrow shape, the large sail or Merlin's magic – but whatever it was, it was working. They sailed onwards, not catching a wink of sleep, acutely aware of the hostile ships that were always within sight.

Merlin didn't say a word but his exhaustion was visible. Around midnight the sailing conditions changed, bringing along a strong wind of their own, and Merlin breathed easier, lying down on his back in the narrow space.

Within moments his eyes closed. Arthur decided to let him sleep.

It seemed easy enough once you got the hang of it, he concluded. Keep the sail from flapping. Point the boat in the general direction of the brightening sky in the east. Mind the wind.

They took a wide berth around the island. Before them there was nothing but the vast ocean of emptiness and the first hint of sun visible over the horizon.

"You should have woken me," Merlin said sleepily.

"You seemed tired," Arthur said.

"You are, too."

It was true, but what could you do?

"Go on. Get some sleep," Merlin poked him in the arm. Arthur was tired, cold and numb from sitting in one position for too long. He took Merlin's previous spot without protest and drifted off, lulled to sleep by the rocking and splashing of waves.

Next time he opened his eyes it was high noon. Someone—Merlin—had covered him with a thin, coarse fabric to protect him from the sunlight.

"Thanks," he said.

He had anticipated the despair, since they had set off with no clear idea of where they were going. But he hadn't expected that the silence stretching between them would be so awkward.

They ate some bread and washed it down with wine, barely exchanging a syllable. They took turns at the rudder. Merlin kept scanning the horizon for some hint of land; Arthur kept looking back to detect their pursuers.

"Aren't you going to miss it?" he asked eventually.

"Miss what?"

"The island. Ealdor. It's your home, after all."

"Oh, I'm going back there," Merlin said darkly. "I have some unfinished business. But I couldn't stand it anymore."

"I know what you mean."

After a stretch of silence, Merlin cleared his throat.

"And are you really the prince of Camelot?" he asked.

"My father was Uther Pendragon, the High King. Yes."

"Oh."

Arthur waited while Merlin chewed his lower lip in silence.

"I'm sorry," he said carefully.

"For what?" Arthur said.

"For what I said about your father. That was pretty insensitive, wasn't it?"

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He couldn't bear the thought of their first conversation, of kings and politics, while he wasn't sure if he would ever see Camelot again.

"You didn't know. And besides, you had a valid point."

"He was still your father."

Arthur said nothing.

They dropped the subject.

Hours passed. The constant rocking motion of the boat was slowly getting to him – he wanted nothing more than to feel solid ground under his feet. But there was nothing in sight.

Their provisions were sparse – Merlin had grabbed what he could from Mary. Merlin himself was weakened to the point of uselessness and slept more than Arthur thought humanely possible. They ended up settling into a routine that involved trading watches and no words at all in those short periods of time when they were both awake.

The dawn of third day, Arthur woke under a thick shroud of mist.

"I have no idea what's going on," Merlin said pre-emptively. "It wasn't there, and suddenly it was."

The dampness seeped through their clothes; Arthur started to shiver. Merlin was doing much worse, his lips turning blue. They sailed on, but the boat moved slow and sluggish. The wind died down, and the sail was hanging uselessly.

"Can you try using magic?"

"No," Merlin said, hugging himself tightly. There was an odd, far-away look to his face. "I don't think that would be wise."

Arthur didn't ask any more questions.

The fog thickened. Merlin took down the sail while Arthur grabbed the oars. He had no clue what was going on, but the sea was flat – in fact it didn't even resemble a sea anymore.

"Where are we?"

The fog dulled all sounds and his voice sounded unnaturally loud.

"I have no idea," Merlin whispered.

A shaft of sunlight penetrated the mist. Arthur gasped at the sight – the bottom of the sea was clearly visible only a couple of feet beneath them. And it was rising rapidly.

Soon enough the boat scratched on the rocks and sand. They came to a stop at a small beach and as soon as they did, Merlin climbed out of the boat in some sort of trance.

He walked barefoot in the sand, mist parting before him, baring a path.

"Come on," he said.

Arthur followed. Merlin's voice did things to him when it was light and playful, but when it got like that, deep and commanding, it was impossible not to obey.

The first rock formation they went by could pass for natural. The next one was clearly man-made – a column of some sorts. They climbed a slope, leaving the mist behind them.

It was a courtyard, surrounded by stone walls and opened to the sky. Arthur took a careful look around but there was nothing there.

"I've heard of this place," Merlin said softly. "This is Avalon. The Temple of the Old Religion."

"How do you know?"

"My mother and Gaius used to tell me stories."

"But how is it _here_? We couldn't see it."

"I think it might be magic," Merlin said.

Arthur bit back a sarcastic remark. It _was_ magic. Even he could tell. Every bit of the enchanted mist, of the rocks and every single blade of grass screamed _magic_ at the top of their non-existent lungs.

The very centre of the courtyard was a stone. From the very heart of the rock protruded a gorgeous sword. Arthur's fingers itched to curl around the handle, impatient for a weapon he was accustomed to.

"Can you hear—" he asked.

"Yes, I can hear."

"They found us," he said once the commotion grew louder. "How could they have found us? If this is a sacred place, how could they come here?"

"How should I know? Maybe it's easy to cross once the path is open," Merlin was looking around – not in the direction of the oncoming guards but forward, where the mist was still thick. "There is something else, though—"

The first guard—or was it one of those thugs? It didn't matter, they all wanted them dead now—ran into the open space of the courtyard. He already had a sword in his hand.

Arthur desperately searched for a usable weapon that wasn't stuck in solid stone but the place was as large as it was empty. Merlin turned his back, heedless of danger, not bothering with barriers or anything else. Soon enough someone would fire, a crossbow bolt finding Merlin's heart; he would collapse on the ground, blood flowing from the wound, and the light in his eyes would slowly fade away…

Arthur's fingers found the handle of the sword. He didn't care if he would have to pick up the entire thing and fling it at his opponents; they were not dying here, alone at the very edge of the world.

He pulled.

He didn't know what it was. Yet another kind of magic, perhaps. The handle was warm in his hand, the blade briefly glowing gold. Pulling it out was as easy as taking a sword out of its sheath; and its length and weight was just right, the balance perfect, as if it was made for Arthur's hand alone.

They stood no chance. Arthur kept them off, away from Merlin, sword flashing and parrying—

The ground shook. A deafening roar echoed across the yard.

Arthur trembled down to his very bones. His opponents weren't faring much better – most fell down to their knees.

"Was it—"

"A dragon?"

"But—how?"

Arthur looked to Merlin, who was wearing an expression of slight alarm.

"A dragon?" Arthur said.

"I think so," Merlin said.

"How is that even possible?"

"Don't ask me. Although—I thought I heard a voice. I think I understand—"

Whatever Merlin heard, and what he understood – Arthur didn't know.

He saw only the enormous, dark shape, descending on them from above.

 

 

 

 

**Epilogue**

"Whatever you have to say, it better be good news," said Agravaine.

The messenger cleared his throat.

"Such as?"

"The tragic passing of my dear nephew would be favourable."

The man chuckled uncomfortably. He was scrawny, rat-like and okay with the fact. He didn't betray people; that would require someone trusting him in the first place and no-one was that stupid. But Agravaine was oily and charming and pleasant, and it was even more disconcerting to hear him talk like that.

"There appears to be a delay—" he began. He never got to finish.

The commotion in the corridors reached the council chamber with the force of a riot. Castle guards and red-clad knights were screaming, part excited, part terrified. The messenger took one look at the situation and disappeared promptly via one of the many passages to-and-from the castle.

Agravaine was doing what he could to placate the crowd but no-one paid him much attention.

"What do you mean _Prince Arthur is back?_ " he shouted.

"Exactly that, m'lord," said Sir Leon. "He's alive and he's back."

"How?"

No-one knew how. Agravaine forcibly grabbed one of his trusted advisors.

"Why didn't you stop him?" he hissed.

The man backed a step.

"M'lord, he had very—convincing arguments."

Just then, a mighty roar rattled the windowpanes.

"A dragon," someone said into the following silence.

"A dragon," Sir Leon repeated in awe.

" _A dragon_?" Agravaine said. "Where did he get a dragon?"

"Easy," Arthur said.

His voice was loud enough to be heard – or perhaps it was simply the kind of voice people listened to. The crowd made way for him without a word; Arthur took time to greet whomever he could by name, accepting bows and salutations with all the grace of a returning king.

Marching behind him was a boy, slightly taller and thinner, dark-haired and blue-eyed. He was staring around curiously.

Arthur took his hand, giving it a brief squeeze. The smile they gave each other was secretive, playful – and to anyone standing close that knew how to look, a little besotted.

"It's easy," he repeated. "I found myself a Dragonlord."


End file.
